


To Arms, to Arms! My Jolly Grenadiers!

by IllyanaA



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nations at War, Non-Graphic Violence, Probably a little angst here and there, Seven Years' War, battles and mentions of injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:33:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6977860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IllyanaA/pseuds/IllyanaA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The French and Indian War lasted from 1754-1760 in North America, and from 1756-1763 in Europe. Britain and France are no strangers to violence; most of their scars have come from fighting each other. For America and Canada, however, war is an entirely new experience. Their respective sovereign nations will be by their sides to guide them through the pain, the suffering, the triumph, the failures, and everything that war brings. Neither of the colonies know how this war will alter both of their futures; they simply don the colours of their sovereigns, and go to battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hark, how the drums do roll it along!

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. All mistakes mine.   
> Long time member of this fandom, making the jump into the fanfic realm of Hetalia. I'm gonna try to make this as "G" as war can possibly be. But I'll warn as we progress.  
> Here we go.

 

_End of June 1754_

British America stood at one of the docks on New York Harbour, watching as his sovereign’s ship came in. He straightened his clothes and kicked the mud off of his boots, glancing over at the governor of New York. The man looked less than pleased after having been interrupted by Royal officials, informing him of Lord Kirkland’s imminent arrival. America ignored him, watching the tall ship come into port. The _Devonshire_ eased into her moorings, and off stepped his father nation, standing tall and strong as ever. America was pleased to see him. Britain’s presence here, while unexpected, was not unwelcome, but the urgency of his letter suggested something was off.

He greeted his colonizer with a polite incline of the head when he approached. The instinct to call out to him came easily, but with effort he squashed it down. He and England presented themselves as brothers now to avoid awkward questions about how a father that looked as young as Britain could have a son as old as America. But they’d only been doing this for a few years, and America still found it strange.

“Lord Kirkland,” the governor greeted, “I hope your journey was pleasant.”

“Always happy to be out on the sea, Governor De Lancey, but I’m afraid the purpose of my visit is less pleasant.” He turned to America. “Alfred, help these men unload the crates.”

He joined in with the sailors that hauled the equipment off of the ship, watching his father as he did so. He noted England’s state of dress as he spoke with the governor and found that he wore half his military attire. He suspected one of these boxes held the older nation’s redcoat, but for what reason, he couldn’t say. He had heard nothing of a war in Europe, so he couldn’t be gathering troops from here. He vaguely registered an order that these boxes must be sent to aid Lieutenant Colonel Washington and his Indian allies to aid in their retreat with the upmost haste.

England gave him an abrupt wave, signaling for him to follow. He had papers in his left hand, the contents of which America did not know, and he had a pack on his back that the colony hadn’t noticed before.

“The rest of our important affects will be brought to the governor’s home. We’ll stay there as we seek counsel.”

England said nothing else to him as they walked the streets of New York, setting America’s nerve on edge. In recent years, the older man was never short on things to say to his colony, usually comments or critiques about something he’s done wrong. He understood that Great Britain had appearances to keep, but if America’s clothes or boots were dirty because he’d gone riding before a meeting, so be it. How would yelling at him fix that?

As soon as they entered the room they would be staying in, England’s mood changed. He put his hands on America’s shoulders and looked him up and down.

“Are you hurt? Have you suffered any sharp pains or discovered unexplainable cuts or bruising in the past few days?”

The colony blinked, startled. “What? No, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

England’s fussing ceased, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “Praise God.”

“England, what’s wrong?”

He gave no reply, instead moving to answer a knock at the door. Opening it revealed De Lancey’s house slave. She gave a small bow to both of them.

“Lord Kirkland, the governor requests your presence for dinner. Your brother is welcome, of course.”

“Tell him we’ll be right down.”

“I’ll explain everything after supper. For now,” he said stepping forward and brushing down America’s unruly hair, “put on your best face. We should be polite guests.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

_A few weeks prior…_

France watched his colony as he worked on his latest piece on the bass violin. Canada’s brow furrowed in frustration as he tackled the more challenging part of the piece. The young man’s fingers danced across the strings as he traversed the complicated ending. The last note rang out long and hollow, and Canada placed the instrument back on its stand. Pride welled up within him. New France tackled any challenge he put his mind to.

Canada smiled at him, noticing his presence. “Finished with your paperwork, Papa?”

“It never ends. But I’ve done enough for now. Come now, dinner has been laid out for us.”

France turned and led the way, expecting Canada to follow along behind him. He reached the door way when he heard a gasp from behind him.

“Papa?” Canada mumbled from across the room, pain in his voice. He had a death grip on the back of his armchair, leaning all of his weight on the old wingback, his other hand pressed to his side. “I don’t—”

France reached him in two strides, catching him as he collapsed. Blood began to soak on to the white of his undershirt. “Mathilde!” he shouted. “Bring bandages and water!”

Their servant scurried off, collecting the items her master had requested. France began to panic, not at the wound itself—it wasn’t fatal; Canada would heal—but at the implications of it. This wound hadn’t been caused by another person, but by the death of his people. An attack. _Britain._ They weren’t at war, but France had no doubt that he or his people had been the ones responsible for this. As soon as Canada’s wound was taken care of, he’d be writing his leaders and demanding answers.

“Papa, what’s happening? Why am I—?”

France lifted his colony’s bloody hands off of his wound, soothing the small whimper of pain that came with it. “Shh, _mon canard_ , it’s all right.”

Canada gave him a look that said: _Don’t lie to me._

He sighed, and took the bandages from Mathilde, dismissing her just as quickly. Once she had left he said: “You’ve had hard winters; people dying of starvation and illness.”

“It’s never felt like this before. And it’s nearly summer, so it can’t be the cold.” He grimaced as France wound the bandages around him.

“That’s because this—what you’re experiencing—is what happens during war time. This is how it feels when your people are killed by an enemy.” He looked at him then, all of his hundreds of years showing on his face. “This is likely the first of many.”

Canada met his gaze, shock and fear glaring through the pain. “By whom? Who would attack—”

“I have a suspicion. I will write our leaders as soon as you’re taken care of, and I’ll get answers.”

The attack hadn’t happened in Canada’s lands; else he would have felt it. No, this had happened in disputed territory, most likely, the Ohio.

France remembered his first war related wound and how the tolerance builds up over time. Then even the smallest failure in battle would have him on his knees as Canada is now, but as time has passed it took more deaths to cause this kind of reaction in him. Eventually the boy would develop the same tolerance, but France had hoped this lesson could be put off for a little longer.

For now, he held Canada until the pain had passed, determined to try and squash this petty squabble before it started.

_You will not hurt my boy again, Angleterre. I will not allow it._

*  *  *  *  *  *

_End of June 1754:_

“They did _what?!_ England you can’t be serious! We’re not at war; how could they—”

“A disgruntled governor—Virginia’s to be precise—sent troops to resolve a disagreement in the Ohio territory and caused an international incident. He is being dealt with. But understand that New France is likely to have felt the death of his people, and France has been demanding repercussions. I left shortly before that whole incident, and only received word a few days ago. I had _hoped_ to arrive before tensions with the French near the Ohio got to that point.”

“But you were too late.”

England nodded and sipped his tea. He had hoped to prevent all of this, but even with favourable winds, crossing the Atlantic took weeks. “The situation in the Ohio has been tense, but now we’re facing war with France. Again. I was afraid it had already started, which is why I fussed over you earlier.”

America looked at him, confused. England had dreaded this conversation, but now he supposed it was time. Scotland had explained the concepts of nations at war to him by example. He remembered the wounds given to him by his brother’s hands, the betrayal he felt as his caretaker attacked him. At least he would get to ease America into it with words. He looked into his cup, wishing it contained something a bit stronger than tea. He set down his tea and moved next to America on the little cot that served as his bed.

“If war comes to your lands, you will feel the death of your men. It’s different than feeling your people die of famine or illness. It’s…more intense, in many ways.” His colony still didn’t appear to understand. Perhaps he shouldn’t have sheltered the boy so much and let him see the realities of being a nation. America had enjoyed the protection of the Empire for nearly all of his life, and before England gained imperial strength, he worked his hardest to stave off war. After a moment of silence, he said, “Do you remember when I came to visit you after the English Civil War?”

“Not…everything.”

“No? Well, you were young.”

_He stepped over the threshold into their little house, the cooler winds of Autumn beginning to take affect outside. The house was warm, fire crackling on the logs in the main hearth. America sat on his caretaker’s lap as she rocked him to sleep, telling him a story. But instead of his eyes drooping, he started up at her, enthralled by the tale she told. England leaned against the frame, exhaustion setting in, and watched them for a moment._

_His advisors had wanted him to stay in England, believing he would heal faster at home. Instead, he’d insisted that New England was his land too, and that he’d be happier with his boy than trapped inside the walls of a castle. So he bandaged his wounds and caught the first ship headed west._

_“Oh, Lord Kirkland! I didn’t hear you come in!” She stood up as America began to smile and giggle in her arms. He was calling out for his father-nation as she explained: “I was just putting little Alfred to sleep.”_

_An exuberant smile broke on his face. “Thank you, Catherine. I’ll take him now.”_

_“You’re back!” America finally got a word in as she handed him off to England. He threw his little arms around his father’s neck._

_England hid the wince of pain that the boy’s weight on his chest created, holding him closer instead. “I came as soon as I could. I’ve missed you, darling.”_

_He laid the boy down to sleep not long after, promising to spend the day together in the morning. As soon as he was content America had fallen asleep, he set about the arduous task of rebinding his wounds. He went back toward the kitchen, where a bowl of water sat on the table. Easing out of his travel clothes, he began to pull the bandages off of his back. Some of them stuck to the cuts and pulled off the scabs, causing them to begin to bleed again. He bit back a groan as the soiled cloths pulled at his already injured skin. Leaning across the table, he grabbed the towel and fresh cloths and started to wash off his back._

_“England?” a little voice whispered behind him. Damn. “You’re hurt!”_

_“I’m all right, Lamb. This is nothing. I simply fell off my horse and scratched up my back. Nothing to worry about.” A twinge of guilt for lying to him so easily. “Go back to bed, America. I’ll be there in a moment.”_

“Those scratches, the scars I’ve seen. You’ve always told me that someone hurt you. Your brothers or France…”

“Well, to be fair, I wasn’t completely lying.” 

America pushed to his feet. “If our leaders know what war does to us, why do they start things like this without our consent?!”

England stayed seated, trying to calm America’s outburst before it grew out of proportion. He had a tendency to overreact sometimes. “America, our lives span generations. There are those who have never met us, who know nothing of our existence. Sometimes, it is the best option. In these times, we must do our very best to fight our own pain and serve alongside our men, for the good of all our people.”

The boy looked unsure of what to do with this information. He stared down at the floor, and England remembered how young he was. The boy met his eyes again. “I’m…I’m not sure we’re ready to go to war. British America doesn’t have an army, and I don’t think we could raise one before—”

Now England stood and put his hands on America’s shoulders, calming his panicked ramblings before they took off. “You will have the full backing of the Empire in this, America. That’s why I’m here.”

“Thank you.”

He smiled. “Of course. Now, no more of this. Get some rest. We’re meeting up with a company riding for Fort Necessity tomorrow.”

America bid him goodnight and settled on his cot.

The Empire settled in his own bed, one final thought crossing his mind before he slept. _I would never let them harm you, America. Believe that._


	2. To horse, to horse, with valiant good cheer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd. Continuing the story.  
> Heading to A-kon this weekend, any one going?

America woke to the sound of England gathering things for their journey. He had already changed into his military dress, redcoat hanging off his shoulders. His hat lay nearby, next to another set of uniforms. A small plate of breakfast sat on the table near his sovereign’s borrowed bed, and America’s stomach rumbled seeing it.

“Good morning,” England said over his shoulder, face buried deep in some report. “Breakfast was left for you earlier. I am on my way to speak to the governor to finalize plans. I expect you dressed and fed by the time I return. Your clothes are on the bed.”

“Yes, sir.” He walked over to where the other uniform lay on the bed, any nervousness from last night gone, replaced now by excitement. He pulled on his breeches first, tossing his looser, more comfortable pants into his pack, before putting on his shirt and waistcoat. He adjusted everything until it looked the way England’s did, doing everything he could to avoid a lecture about his state of dress being a “disappointment to the Empire” or some such. When everything was on the way he wanted, he picked up the redcoat and held it out in front of him. _Finally._ He shrugged into it, the weight of the fabric settling on his shoulders. His wasn’t as ornate as England’s—he ranked lower in the Royal Army—but he felt an inexplicable pride in bearing his uniform. At last he wore British colours.

He scarfed down his breakfast and returned to packing his things. England returned a few minutes later, and when he caught sight of him, America could read the pride on his face. The older man picked up his hat and placed it under his arm.

“Let’s go down. We mustn’t keep them waiting.”

The moment they stepped out onto the streets of New York, both of them set their hats atop their heads. Waiting at the end of the road were six or seven Regulars, who saluted their officers as they approached. Horses stood ready for them both, England mounted his first, heading to the front of the group.

“Alfred. Come up here.”

He mounted his horse and rode to the front next to his leader, and they began the trek to meet up with their company.

*  *  *  *   *  *  *

_Early July 2, 1754_

Canada stood behind France at the table, observing as France and his officers decided on their attack plan. Pécaudy, Coulon, and France were certain their current plan would work, if they had the support of their Indian allies. A lack of French forces in North America meant that colonial forces would have to lead the charge, but native support would lessen the number of colonials put in harm’s way. The translator gave them the Odawa representative’s answer. Their friends would have their back. Fort Necessity stood only a few miles from their location, and it would only take a few hours of marching to reach them. Tomorrow, the fort would fall. Still dark outside, dawn not yet broken, they stood in their candle-lit cabin in the center of Fort Duquesne. They would move out just after dawn; their enemy wouldn’t see them coming.

Sometimes, if he moved just right, Canada could still feel the pain in his side. France told him it was only in his mind, but phantom or not, he still felt it. He wondered if he would be able to fight if he were this close to his men when they were cut down, or if the feeling would overwhelm him.

He looked up when France left the cabin, signaling for him to follow. They had some 500 men in this force, each man waking to carry out his tasks. The faster they gathered their equipment, the sooner they could leave. It would be best to attack before any more reinforcements arrived. Apparently, a fellow by the name of Kirkland had arrived a few days ago, bringing with him a small team of 50 men. Canada thought that a rather small force, but France had stiffened at the mentioned name.

“Mathieu,” his father said as they sat down to eat their final meal at the fort. “I would like it very much if you would stay here.”

Canada looked at him, shocked. “My men are going to battle, and I should go with them.”

“It is dangerous for a colony to go to war. You don’t heal as quickly as we do.”

“But how am I ever going to learn how to handle the war-pains if I stay here in safety. Pap—Francis”, he amended as plates were set down in front of them, “you said yourself that this would be an easy fight. Few casualties. A perfect time to get my feet wet.”

“That was before news of Kirkland’s arrival reached us.”

“Why are you so afraid of one man—?”

“Because,” said France, lowering his voice and leaning it. “Kirkland is not _just_ a man. He is England. An Empire with strength to rival my own.”

_Oh._ That explained his sovereign’s sudden change of mood. Dear Papa, he was so protective of him; he’d spent more time here than in France ever since Canada came into being. Whenever he left for war, he did so reluctantly, making sure that those who stayed behind to care for his colony were among the best. After his first attack a few weeks ago, France had explained to him that while a nation who was killed would regenerate, with a colony or fledgling nation there was no guarantee. He could be mortally wounded, and perhaps he would die and stay dead, or perhaps he would come back. Canada accepted this idea, albeit reluctantly, but France seemed adamant to keep him hidden away from the fray.

“Papa,” he ventured when they were alone again. “I understand your concern, but I still believe that we are prepared enough to force a surrender. Even the British Empire wouldn’t risk senseless death of his troops when he could surrender and leave with most of them still intact.” He reached across and put a hand on France’s arm. “Let me go with you.”

France’s eyes softened. “I can’t protect you forever; it’s true.” He sighed, and this was one of those times where his hundreds of years showed on his face. “Very well, you may ride out with me.”

Canada knew his face lit up, and he did nothing to hide it. “ _Merci,_ Papa!”

His father smiled briefly before returning to his breakfast. Canada finished his meal and wished France goodnight, retiring to their shared quarters to pack his things. It wouldn’t be long before they rode out, and he had to admit, he hadn’t been this excited since his first visit to France as a child. As a colony, he considered it an honour to wear French colours, and he recognized this opportunity to learn another valuable skill from his sovereign.

He had to learn the art of war eventually, and there was no person he’d rather learn it from.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

 

_Morning July 3, 1754_

America knew England was on edge. All of Fort Necessity knew their commander was on edge. Lieutenant Colonel Washington and Captain Mackay briefed his sovereign on the situation. Washington had ordered trenched dug, but the rains had turned them into streams. There wouldn’t be time to try and dig new ones, so England had ordered make-shift breastworks be constructed to aid in defence. The forest stood a good hundred yards from the fort. As it stood now, they would be easy targets for the French to pick off from under the safe cover of the trees.

The men set off to work as soon as the sun started to rise; America went out to work with the other Virginians, wanting to be out from underneath England’s feet for as long as possible. He threw his musket over his shoulder and began hauling the freshly cut wood to the water-logged trenches.

The sun wasn’t yet overhead, but thanks to the humid air, America could tell this day would be a hot one. Already sweat dropped off of his forehead and onto the soaked ground below. With any luck another storm would come around noon and cool off the fort. He wished the fort had been built closer to the forest, as the trees would have provided shade. Still, it wasn’t as hot as Virginia tended to be this time of year, and for that, he was grateful.

He bent over to take a sip out of his canteen, cool water refreshing to his parched lips. Commotion stirred above his head, and he moved to peek out of the trench when some shouted. “Get down!”

Musket fire flew above his head, and the troops around him sprang into action. He jumped up out of the trenches as their assailants reloaded. The men marching toward them wore French colours, and they had native allies at their sides. They had miscalculated, though, allowing Britain and Washington to come out of the fort and mount a counter. America rushed to his sovereign’s side, musket in tow, waiting for orders from his officers. Together with the regulars, America marched with the line as they advanced toward the French line, out into the open field. The French forces met them head on, and Washington ordered a volley fired. Kneeling down, in unison with the rest of the men, he set the butt of his rifle against his shoulder and fired. Several of the natives fell to the ground as a result of their attack, but when the smoke cleared, America’s eyes met those of young man across from him. A young man who looked an awful lot like himself. He blinked once, twice through the smoke as he loaded again, firing when the order came.

Looking back to his own lines, America’s jaw dropped. His Virginians had left the line, leaving the regulars all that stood between the French forces and the capture of the fort. He saw England’s eyes dart down the line and motion something to Washington who promptly ordered a retreat. They moved back into the fort, America standing at England’s side the moment they were out of the fire.

“Damn it! Someone round up those bloody militiamen and get them back in lines!” Britain barked at whoever stood nearby. “America,” he rounded on him, grabbing his arm in a tight grasp. “You will not go back out with the lines; am I clear?”

“What?! Why not?”

“France,” he spat the name like a curse, “is out there. And he’s brought your brother. Those are colonial forces, not French regulars. If France realizes you’re here, he’ll shoot in your direction until he wounds you.”

_Canada_. He hadn’t seen his brother in years. They’d met a few times, on business trips and formal occasions, the last time being America’s most recent voyage to Europe. They didn’t speak much, Canada spoke little English and America’s French was broken at best—England tried his best to teach him, but his sovereign had little patience with the tongue of his greatest enemy, leaving America with few chances to practice actually speaking it. Still, he thought his neighbour to the north was kind and gentle, and wished him no harm.

“Are we…fighting my brother?” America asked.

Britain gave no response, moving instead to help Washington regroup. The Canadians moved ahead into the field, firing heavily on the fort. The first volley fired in return was shot too high, missing most of their target. America heard another string of curses leave his sovereign’s mouth—in Welsh this time—and watched another volley fly. This one failed like the last. Between the sounds of musket fire, a roll of thunder shook the walls. Rain was coming, which would wet down their powder and make it impossible to fight. They had to end this, soon.

Otherwise he’d have to deal with England’s sour mood for the rest of the evening.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Canada held the white flag high as he and his sovereign approached Fort Necessity. France motioned for him to stop halfway; Washington had apparently given an order to prevent them from entering or nearing the fort, ensuring instead that they would send someone out to negotiate. Two figures, clad in red, walked out to meet them. Canada noted the smirk on France’s face as they came closer.

“ _Angleterre_ ,” France said as soon as the other two were in earshot. “ _et Amérique_! Lovely to see you both again.”

Canada felt the power the British Empire held now that he was in his presence again. France had been right; Britain was a match for France’s own strength now. What shocked him more though, was the fact that his brother stood at Britain’s back, in British uniform and looking battle wearied. Hadn’t France said he knew with certainty that the Empire wouldn’t risk his colony in battle.

America smiled at him and gave him a small wave from behind his sovereign. He returned the favour.

“Save it, Frog.” Canada was surprised to hear French leave the Englishman’s tongue. He knew little about his father’s arch enemy, but he did know how much he hated all things French. He’d forgotten that Britain spoke French. “I would like to make this quick. What is it that you want?”

“The garrison, of course. Fort Necessity lies in a very strategic position.”

“And what would we receive in return?”

France appeared to think it over for a moment. “You may leave with full honours, and your lives. Otherwise, our native allies may storm the fort and scalp every last one of you.”

Canada stared at France, shocked. That hadn’t been part of their discussions. He looked over at America, who stood behind Britain looking lost and confused. The Empire clenched his fists for a moment, and Canada watched his brother take a wary step forward.

“Britain—” America began.

The Empire cut him off, barking something at him in English and silencing America’s questions, before looking back to France. “Do I have your word that you will not pursue?”

“But of course.”

Britain sighed. “Very well. I will accept and inform the men at once.”

They bowed lightly to each other—although it was evident there was no respect in those bows—and they turned and walked back in their respective directions. Canada's mind raced as they approached their lines, not entirely convinced he wouldn't be fired on from behind. France's threat...startled him.

Without lowering the flag of truce, Canada muttered, “Papa, you…hadn’t mentioned the scalping.”

“I needed to convince him. Britain won’t unnecessarily risk the lives their men.” He placed a hand on his shoulder and met his eyes. “Trust that I wouldn’t have actually ordered that. Not unless we were desperate.”

It should have comforted him, but Canada wondered how long it would be before decisions like that began to be made. War proved to be messy business; he’d seen France come home injured more than once. He wondered how many times his sovereign had given orders that caused him to wake up screaming at night. He wondered if, when things heated up and one started to _feel_ the deaths of one’s men so intensely, it became easier to treat the enemy’s army as objects to be disposed of by any means necessary instead of human beings. He hoped he wouldn’t have to find out for a long time.


	3. We’ll meet our proud foe before it is long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been forty years.

_Early July 4, 1754_

They left first thing in the morning, drums sounding and flags flying as the Canadian forces took the fort. America rode next to his sovereign and Washington while their men marched behind them. He held his head high as England had instructed, riding out with outward dignity intact, though inwardly he felt humiliated. So this was what defeat felt like. He decided it wasn’t a feeling he enjoyed.

Behind them, the French and the natives started to loot their supplies as they left, but aside from Britain’s occasional muttering of “uncivilized” or “disgusting”, neither he nor Washington made any move to stop them. England insured him that this would continue for a day or two.

There had been almost no discussion, no orders, no sound since negotiations. Washington had signed away his command, angry that the French had accused him of assassination. He had demanded a translation change, but the French refused. That would come back to bite them, America was sure. He could already hear the gossip and rumors spreading across Europe.

He took his last look at the fort as it went up in flames. Muffled cheering carried across the field and reached just to the edge of the trees. He turned his head back to the forest.

His sovereign had already sent word ahead to the local government of Virginia that he would meet with them upon their arrival. Washington mentioned a resignation, but America hoped he would change his mind. He seemed like a good man, a good leader. Maybe _he_ could be the governor one day.

Around him his men seemed downcast. The militia still looked chastised after the lashing Britain had given them yesterday. And they should. Their behaviour embarrassed him. Britain’s regulars look so disciplined and focused in battle—it was a whole different story off the field, but at least they could sober up. He hoped that when it came time for him to form his own army, Britain would send some more experienced officers to help him train them.

“What’s the next step after this?” He asked, tired of the silence.

“I’ll get in touch with Parliament and see what’s happening in Europe. In the meantime, it’ll be a matter of what my generals here say. If the French and Colonial forces are making a move, then we need to be ready to retaliate.”

And that was that. Queue more riding in silence.

He wondered how Canada was doing. It was a shame he’d never had a chance to get to know him. England and his brothers hated each other at best; he wondered if he and Canada would’ve gotten along. Maybe one day, if their sovereigns ever called a more permanent truce or when they were their own nations, they’d be able to make up for lost time.

The ride dragged on and the silence grew heavier and heavier. America hated silence. Silence for him meant loneliness as he waited for his sovereign to return, mourning as he buried so many human friends, and more recently, deciding whether or not to stand up to England when he disagreed with him. That was the worst of all the silences, because it usually ended in shouting. Even now, as he stole glances at his militia, disobeying England’s orders to ignore them until they reached Virginia, he wondered whether or not he should try and defend them during their inevitable berating. He’d heard the stories Scotland and Wales told: Britain tended to be a little… _harsh_ …after the loss of a battle, tearing any man nearby—officer or regular—a new one.

He dreaded that confrontation. They still have a few days, though. Maybe he can get England to calm down a bit before then.

They set up camp once England was satisfied that they’d moved far enough into the woods. Dinner rang out and hour or two after, and in an attempt to ease his sour mood, America gathered a bowl for both of them, bringing them into England’s tent. His sovereign mumbled a thank you, as he turned over another paper, eyes darting across the back. He set it down next to him, leaning over to look at the stacks of papers on the stump that served as his makeshift desk.

Nothing too important, so he decided to ask: “May I eat with you?”

England let out a breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He nodded his permission.

Uninterested in another minute of silence, America tried to strike up conversation, but couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t bring up the battle or the defeat. He settled for a repeat of his earlier question. “What happens now?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.” England took a bite of his tasteless stew. “But you know our history. I’ve no doubt this will escalate.” He paused for a moment. “I’m sorry you’re a part of it now.”

That stung more than he cared to admit. He thought he’d managed pretty well out there. His militia, not so much. “I’ll get better—I’ll learn tactics. Maybe we can train the militia to be more organized—”

“America,” England smiled. “You were great. You did everything you were supposed to do. I’m proud of you.”

_Oh._ “Thank you. I—”

“But I still don’t want you out there unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

He started. “How am I supposed to learn cooped up in a fort somewhere?”

“I never said you wouldn’t be allowed out at all.” He took another bite of his stew.

America relaxed a bit then, tension leaving his shoulders. It seemed almost every conversation he had with the man he felt like he was bracing for a fight. He couldn’t quite determine why.

England seemed to sense his unrest. His sovereign finished his bowl first and turned back to his paperwork. He pulled out a map of the fallen fort and said: “Take our dishes back and then I’ll show you some of our tactics from earlier. Chop Chop.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. With a grin he scooped up their bowls and ran out into the night.

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Fort Duquesne buzzed. France sincerely doubted the British would try to attack them after that embarrassment, but one could never be so certain. They got all of their spoils put away a few hours ago, now the men set to work making the most of them. He stayed behind to work, finishing up a letter to Louis XV reporting on their progress here. He advised that Britain would not take kindly to their lashing; he didn’t doubt this conflict would escalate. He ended with a brief message to give the queen his love. It was so much easier to write the man directly, and it was a privilege France had enjoyed for many years.  

He looked up at the sound of footsteps; Canada stood in the doorway, food in hand.

“Papa? I’ve already eaten, but I thought you might be hungry,” he said, setting the tray down on the table next to him.

“I could eat, yes.” He smiled and took a bite of the chicken from one of the plates. “How are they?”

Canada winced at the sound of a crash from somewhere inside the fort. “Rowdy.”

“As I had expected.” He gestured for him to sit. “How are you doing?”

The boy looked down at his feet. “I’m anxious. I don’t want this to escalate.”

“I have no doubt that it will. But you did well out there. You fought well. I’m proud of you.”

“ _Merci,_ Papa!”

France pulled up a map of the now burned fort.

“Now, let’s review our tactics shall we? Describe to me what we did and why.”

Canada pulled his chair over closer, and began to retell the events of the battle. He stumbled over the why of a few things, but for the most part, his review was good.

“Papa,” he began, after he’d been thoroughly praised for a job well done. “You…argued with Britain for control of my brother when he was a child, did you not?”

“Ouias, I did.”

“Can you tell me what he was like? Back then, I mean.”

France leaned back, taking a sip from his wine. “He was a sickly child. England’s early attempts at colonization were ravaged with sickness and famine. I heard rumors of his fear of losing his child.”

“How old was he?”

“Toddling age, I believe. He wasn’t an infant when we found him. We’re both unsure whether or not he was born at Roanoke or after. He was bright and cheerful when he wasn’t sick, though. It’s part of why I wanted him. England tends to gloom those he’s around.”

Canada laughed at that. “I hope, one day, maybe, I’ll get to know him better.”

France smiled a sad smile. _He’s still so young._ Family didn’t mean as much to nations as perhaps it should. England and his brothers fought non-stop. He knew the ancient nations bickered almost constantly, bickering that sometimes—most of the time—turned to war. But maybe this new generation of nations could change that.

Instead of saying this to Canada though, he leaned forward and rested his hands on his shoulders, “I hope so, _mon petit_. I hope so.”

* * * * * * * *

_Beginning of August 1754_

England came in and threw his hat down on the table. America jumped, looking up from the book he was reading. The older nation ran a hand over his face, and sat down in a chair by the fire. Without request America shoved a glass in his hand. He took a long sip, grateful for the ale.

“Meeting not go well, I take it?”

“Oh, no. It went fine. The very fact that I had to have this meeting in the first place is what has me frustrated.” He sighed. “But it’s over now.”

His colony seemed chastised, and he knew this must feel like a failure for him, too. He felt the same each time he watched Danes and Normans trample over his lands as he walked out with his mother or one of his kings, held hung in shame at having been beaten again. They would work; they would practice. Perhaps in a few hundred years America would be strong and seasoned. He’d turned into an Empire, there was no reason to believe that America wouldn’t be a great dominion.

The boy took the silence as dismissal and went back to his reading.

He still waited to hear from Parliament on his next steps, but he already looked to bolster their defenses. He would send men from the costal forts to those on or near the border of New France. Not enough to leave the coast undefended, but enough to be able to make a stand should France or their native allies start to feel bold.

Nothing was likely to occur in the next few months. Winter approached, and there would likely be snow up north long before then. No civilized nation fought in the winter months. But the savages—er, Indians—however, they didn’t follow civilized rules. He stood from the chair and made his way to his writing desk.

In the almost certain event that war broke out across the Atlantic, he would need someone there to manage the battle on the Europeans front. He would not leave America here to lead on his own. He’d get himself killed for sure. There was only one other person he could even remotely trust to do this.

With reluctance, he grabbed a piece of paper and set his seal on the table. He picked up his pen and began to write.

_Scotland, Brother Dear, How are you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do headcanon that America was found as an infant, but for the sake of canon, I'll go with him being an infant.
> 
> I can get more into battle next time, but for now, there had to be some filler. Such is the nature of dealing with historical events: there can be unavoidable downtime.


	4. Let not your courage fail you; Be valiant, stout, and bold;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a thousand years.  
> The notebook that houses my outline for this story is across the Atlantic from me. =(
> 
> Unbeta'd. All mistakes mine. 
> 
> Tis a challenge to write the in between parts of a fic.

_January 1755,_

England had been wrong. Tensions still existed between he and France, but nothing close to war had sparked. Not that he was complaining. Winter would be over in a few months and then they could reevaluate, but the now he had time to plan his next move.

He didn’t know whether or not the idea of another war with France bothered him. It had become almost a constant in his life that in every season, he would fight France. And now, beyond the fact that the governor of Virginia had committed an act of war, France would not let the pain inflicted on his colony go on unpunished. That he understood. France hadn’t yet mentioned anything of the sort, but England knew what war does to their bodies. It was the reason he had hoped to arrive before any fighting started: to spare America unnecessary pain. Enemies though they may be, England didn’t wish that hurt on French Canada now or ever.

But when France wanted war in North America, Britain would be prepared to take action. He would expedite the removal of the French settlers who had not sworn allegiance. The last thing he would need was to have more rebel cells cropping up in Nova Scotia. Concerning Europe, Scotland had agreed to head up any fighting that took place there, leaving him to deal with a possible North American theatre.

The boy came in then, setting his pack down on the table. He’d been off to help one of their elderly neighbors with some sort of repair work. While England sometimes envied his people their mortality, he couldn’t stand the frailty that came with old age. The boy’s clothes drenched, he mumbled a hello, took off his coat and hung it on the rack before going in search of dry attire. As he passed by, he gave him a stack of letters.

Before leaving, he asked, “Can I borrow a pen? I forgot to rinse the tip and it’s been in there for a while…”

The older nation sighed. Another damaged quill. “Yes, yes, alright. But make certain you wash it.”

America nodded and took his water-dripping self to his room.

England shook his head. Tracking water all over the house like that.

America reappeared moments later changed, hair still damp. He said nothing as he peered in to the fire to smell the pot of roast cooking over the flames. He’d been oddly subdued since the meeting—reprimand, more like—with Virginia’s governor. England wondered if it was due to the battle against his brother, the idea of more fighting to come, or something else entirely. He knew better than to pry though; that tended to start arguments. No, the boy would tell him when he was ready.

England kept his eyes on him, waiting for him to speak. He was surprised when America wordlessly sat down at the table, and went back to the reading he had started that morning. These were the ones on Parliamentary policy and procedures, not some of those...other books he’d been reading lately, the ones by John Locke and Jean-Jacques Rousseau. He supposed he could try and prevent him from reading those, but he didn’t see the harm in letting the boy acquaint himself with other styles of thinking. It would be a handy skill to have as a nation, and to be honest, at least he _was_ reading.

“Everything turn out well? The repairs?” He ventured, trying to draw conversation.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Just a hole in the roof. Her grandson and I were able to get it patched,” he said, not glancing up from his book. “How much longer until supper?”

The older nation stood, peering into the pot. “Looks about done. Will you lay the table?”

America set about removing his books and notes from the table, stacking them on the empty chair by the hearth. He hummed something under his breath as he worked, taking extra care when folding England’s maps. Those he put on top of his stack of books on the chair, and as worried as England was that they would fall off and get dirty or damp, he didn’t correct him. Grabbing a couple of bowls, he spooned some of the roast into each and passed them to America.

America spoke right after they said grace. “Any developments with France?”

“None yet. But plans are in the works both here and in Europe. We’ll be ready if he strikes again.”

He fell silent again. The urge to prod was becoming unbearable. He took a few more bites of his stew, trying to decide how to best approach his questions.

But America cracked first. “Will you be staying here, or going back to Europe? If war breaks out, I mean.”

That was what he’d been worried about? He told the colony when they were in New York that he would stay to support him. “I’ll be here,” he said, an attempt to reassure him. “Scotland will lead the forces in Europe.”

He nodded and took another bite, but still looked disquieted, shoulders not relaxed.

“Regardless of what happens this year, we’ll be all right. I promise.” He tried again. America smiled at him, not a full smile, but a start, and he changed the subject. “Now, it’s a new year. What plans do you have for this year?”

Ever the dreamer, America began telling him his plans to spend different amounts of time in the other colonies, skills he wanted to learn, ideas to try. Oh, to be young and so full of dreams again.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Canada shifted on his feet. He hadn’t been to France in years. His papa insisted they spent winter in Paris, where he would have easier access to meet with his government. They set sail at the end of November, and even though it was now the beginning of January, Canada could feel the temperature difference between his home, and France’s. He wondered if he should have brought a lighter coat for the warmer weather, but it was too late now. He’d just have to settle with being extra warm.

France leaned over the railing next to him, and he had that look he always got on seeing his lands after time away. Pure, unadulterated joy. Canada saw nothing but sandy coastline, and the beginnings of hills, but France saw something else entirely. He saw home.

Once they arrived in Paris, their schedule would be hectic. Meetings, strategy discussions, and a troop inspection or two lined their schedule. France hadn’t said so, but Canada knew he was expected to attend as many as allowed. He needed to be as ready for war as France was, and he wanted to understand the intricacies of it all, the politics, the planning. Sure, it could be terribly dull at times, but this was his future. He needed to grasp it.

Canada pulled away from the railing and walked down to the opposite side of the ship. He doubted France noticed, so enamored by the familiar sights. Leaning against a mast, he pulled out a letter from his coat, one he’d managed to conceal from France. He felt some guilt for keeping this hidden, but it had been addressed to _Mathieu Bonnefoy_. More than that, the sender might have…concerned his papa. One Alfred Kirkland, who Canada hadn’t spent time with since they were small, and who he’d recently seen across the battlefield. He hadn’t read it yet, and while he knew to be cautious in his conversation—America was, at the moment, considered a possible enemy—he liked the idea of corresponding with this brother. And he hoped that, one day, they could be allies.

He tore the letter open, careful not to rip the paper underneath. Unfolding the paper, he found writing in a neat cursive scrawl, and the opening had been affectionately written as, “Cher Canada,” followed by very broken French. His brother asked how he was, and some basic questions. The sentences were simple and looked much like a child had written them, but he appreciated the effort. It was sweet of him to try, and so he would return the favour. He glanced back to the front of the ship. France hadn’t moved. Taking this moment, he went down to the lower decks and grabbed France’s pen and ink and a sheet of paper before settling on his bed. He put a book underneath his paper, and the pen and ink, and tried his best to answer his brother in the English that he knew. When he finished, he compared the two. Poor as the language was, this was the beginnings of communication. And it excited him.

He folded the paper, addressed it, and stamped it with his seal. He handed it to the first staff member he could find, instructing them to send it out at the earliest opportunity.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Versailles looked exactly like he’d remembered. Extravagant, colourful, _gold_. As with most of the European nations, the personification of France had been granted a position at court, and therefore, as his colony, so had Canada. They’d arrived at the Palace just after nightfall, lit up in all its splendor. Canada looked forward to seeing the gardens in the morning, perhaps taking his coffee outside.

They’d been greeted by attendants the moment they arrived and ushered through the grand hallways, _Francis_ greeting nearly every nobleman or woman they bumped into. Canada stayed silent, settling for a respectful incline of the head and a smile. Upon approaching the Hall*, the colony straightened his coat

The king had graciously welcomed them, and because France bowed, Canada followed suit. Was that the correct protocol for nation-ruler interaction? He didn’t know, but no one moved to correct him. But as soon as they got away from the public eye, all semblance of rank and structure was gone. Louis XV and Marie treated France like an old friend.

His majesty had been surprised to see him. “New France! What a surprise!” He had said. “We didn’t know you were coming. You’ve grown, too. Last time I saw you, you were still shorter than your papa.”

It was true he had edged out France in height, but only by an inch or two. He’d tried to say he was grateful for the welcome, but had been thoroughly silenced and ushered off to his rooms to change for dinner.

He stood in front of a mirror, fidgeting with his shirt sleeves. He hated to be dressed up like this, feeling more at home in a thick coat and plainer clothes.

Behind him he heard France’s laughter. “Quit messing with it. You’re not here to impress anyone. This is a business trip.”

“Oh.” Canada snorted. “ _This_ is a business trip. I’d hate to see what kind of fuss is made during the _formal_ trips.” He finished adjusting his coat and ran a hand through his hair, curls falling around his head. “All right, I’m ready.”

The dinner had ulterior motive. Canada could feel it. Seated around the table were numerous military officials, in addition to his and her majesties. Seems they wouldn’t be granted a few days’ rest; they would jump straight into talk of war. France looked comfortable, a stark contrast to nervousness he was sure showed on his face. Dinner proceeded without a hitch, conversation was kept polite, no one asking questions too deep or probing. It felt diplomatic, impersonal.

Once the generals’ wives and the queen left the room, the discussions turned. Sure enough, the next topic of conversation was war. A man who had introduced himself as Montcalm stood up. He gave a short bow to the king, and began to speak.

“We are once again facing war with England and her allies. It seems only yesterday that we were negotiating peace after the War of Austrian Succession, and now we are seeking to tighten our defences and go off into battle once more. Intelligence suggests that the main theatre will be across New France and the territories, but do not doubt that Britain and their allies are likely to try and attack us here in Europe.”

Several other men stated their agreements, and started to discuss where to place troops for the purpose of defence. The colony paid little attention, absently taking notes. This hadn’t been as exciting as he thought it would be. In an attempt to pay attention, he began drawing out one of his forts in Quebec, and placing “x’s” where he thought the troops should go, based on the conversation going on around him.

It wasn’t until Montcalm directed a question to France that his attention snapped back into focus, sharp and aware.

“You will be assisting us here, Bonnefoy?”

“I had planned to assist the commanders in New France. That is where I feel I will be the most needed.” The king and several other men in the room looked displeased by that answer, leaving France to try and recover. “But, I will consider it, and should this council determine that I would be of more use here, I shall remain.”

But his last statement displeased Canada. Surely France wouldn’t stay behind. He must have said that to smooth the air in the room. But as Canada’s gaze stayed locked on his face, his papa refused to look at him.

The generals’ discussion moved to the protection of the territories in the West Indies, and as no comment had yet been made about the protection of his lands— _his_ home—the boy spoke up as soon as there was a break in the conversation.

“What is to be done regarding New France?” He asked, trying to keep his voice steady, emotionless, as diplomatic as the others in the room, as if he were inquiring about the temperature outside. He spoke uninvited and out of turn, but he didn’t care.

France tried to answer first. “Troops will be sent of course—”

But de Lévis beat him to it. “It is my opinion that the colonies in the West Indies are and will become much more profitable to France than Canada. The production of tobacco and sugar cane provide more opportunities for trade. Fur is easy to come by.” His voice was cold and patronizing, as if he were talking to a child.

Fur. The chief part of his economy; the part which kept many of his people fed and at work. Before he could say anything else, Vaudreuil, who had come over on the same ship, spoke to his defence.

“Gentlemen, speaking as a man of the New World, I must disagree. If we are to continue to compete with Britain in global trade, Canada’s furs and timber are invaluable. Nowhere else our domain has such an abundance of good quality furs and woods.”

Angered simmered, but he could reign in any further comment. Tensions rose, and he felt France’s and the king’s eyes fixed on him. Before Lévis could speak again, his majesty stood, and all around the table scrambled to their feet.

“I think we should finish our discussion this evening, and reconvene in the morning.”

With that dismissal, they filed out of the room. Canada marched straight for his room, without a farewell or “good evening” given to any of the men in the room. Lévis had attempted to speak with him, but he pushed passed without sparing him a glance. Was this an appropriate attitude to have? Probably not, but times like these made Canada wish more people knew who he was. Lévis would _never_ have made that comment if he had known New France sat across the room from him.

“Mathieu!” His father called after him, anger in his voice. “Mathieu, _Attends_!”

 _Wait for what? A Lecture?_ He stopped in the hallway and took several breaths before turning to face the man walking toward him.

“Your manner in leaving was incredibly disrespectful.”

“What was disrespectful was Lévis’ dismissal of my land! Of my value!”

France took a breath. “He expressed an opinion. A wrong opinion, I would say, but an opinion nonetheless. He wasn’t attacking _you._ He doesn’t know who _you_ are.”

Canada remained silent, afraid to go too far with his words. This wasn’t a confrontation he wanted to have right now. And France could tell.

“You’re not just upset about Lévis, are you?”

He kept his eyes on the floor and spoke, voice barely louder than a whisper. “You’re willing to stay here and make me fight Britain by myself?”

He felt hands settle on his shoulders. “Look at me. I would _never._ I promised you that. Why would you doubt?”

“You-you said—”

“Unlike you, I know how to give a diplomatic answer. It was enough to calm the military leadership, but only the king can order me. And as much as I’m sure he would rather have me here, he will understand my desire to return with you. And he _will_ grant it.”

Canada said nothing in response, but didn’t shrug out of his sovereign’s grip.

France sighed. “Why don’t you get some rest? We’ll talk in the morning. Meet me in the garden for coffee?”

He nodded, mumbled a good night, and continued his walk to his rooms. He wanted to talk to someone. Someone neutral. His brother? Perhaps he could make a letter vague enough to avoid revealing too much.

Sitting down at his borrowed desk, he reached into the part of his mind that housed his limited English and picked up his pen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Historical and Headcanonical things:  
> -Ships usually took four-six weeks to cross the Atlantic. 
> 
> -If you leave an quill in it's ink well for too long, the metal nib can rust. (Speaking from experience. *cough*)
> 
> -Canada and New France were often used interchangeably during this period. 
> 
> -I know little about the titles and workings of French nobility and court. And even less knowledge about whether Hetalia nations answer to their governments or vice versa.
> 
> -The generals opinions on the values of the territories in the colonies is completely my own invention. 
> 
> -I have numerous and weird and competing headcanons for how countries are born and how their bloodlines work. This is based off of one of them.  
> -I also think that America and Canada would have had the surnames of England and France respectively, at least until independence. 
> 
> -And a real life note: I was able to go to Versailles a few weeks ago and let me tell you, regardless of your opinion on the historical implications of the palace, I think whenever I design my house I'm going to find their interior designer.

**Author's Note:**

> So...This is a Seven Years War/French and Indian War Fic. There are lots of things in here that history minor me has headcannoned so that things will make sense. Some of these concepts are widespread in the fandom. Some are not. Feel free to ask me if their is any confusion. =D


End file.
